


Try (And Sometimes You'll Succeed)

by sock_bealady



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: Ellie makes it to the Lodge in time.  She kills them all before Abby can land the killing blow.She and Joel struggle to reckon with the aftermath, both physical and otherwise.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 264





	1. Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I need therapy. Story will likely have four or five chapters eventually. The violence is limited to the first chapter, but expect plenty of medical h/c throughout. The eventual focus will be on Joel and Ellie repairing their relationship and Ellie coming to terms with what she's done.
> 
> This is my first time writing for this fandom. I've taken liberties with things like settings and character inventories. The title, of course, is a shameless "Future Days" reference and I'm not sorry.

Ellie measured her breaths carefully as she cased the old Baldwin place. Her heart was racing from the frantic ride, but she couldn't afford to let her hands shake now. Someone had made quite a cozy habitation out of the first floor. There was a massive fire roaring in the hearth, casting flickering beams of light over a huddled mass of bedrolls and backpacks. No owners in sight, but she could hear voices and . . . other things from downstairs. _Don't rush,_ she reminded herself, _Rushing gets you killed._ She counted the sleeping bags. Seven . . . no, eight. She nudged one of the packs with her toe and heard a metallic thunk and rattle. Canned food. And extra ammo.

An unmistakable scream echoed up the basement stairs, guttural and deep. Ellie swallowed against the pounding lump in her throat. Every cell in her body was urging her to charge down those steps, guns blazing, but . . . no. Eight of them. An empty basement with no cover by the stairs. Even if she could batter down the door, she'd just be walking into a kill box. But, these were outsiders - they couldn't have been here more than a day or two. Maybe not enough time to fully explore their new home. Maybe.

On quick but silent feet, she ghosted across the living room and peeked out one of the large windows. _Yes._ The snow outside was pristine and undisturbed. It had drifted up against the side of the lodge, completely concealing the outer cellar entrance. It was a chance. Not much of one, but a chance.

She slid the window open and vaulted out into the cold. The snow crunched under her feet. Faster, now. She might already be too late. Using her hands and the butt of her hunting rifle, she tore through the snow, shoving it to either side until, after what felt like an eternity, her shaking fingers hit metal. She found the handle, grasped it with both hands, and heaved with all her might. The door was . . . old. And rusted, and heavy with half a snow bank still on it, and for one terrible moment, she thought it wasn't gonna give. The screams reached her, even here, muffled but somehow louder. Her face locked in a grimace. She put her back into it.

Slowly - one inch, then two, then suddenly ten - the door swung open. The screech of rusted metal was covered by a particularly wrenching scream that choked off into gasps. Ellie couldn't afford to think about that. She drew her 9mm, though the metal almost stuck to her hand, and crept down the stairs into the boiler room. Dusty boxes and old water drums filled the small space, and a narrow door connected it to the rest of the basement. She slid around the defunct water heater, eased the door open a crack, and stared out from a shadowed corner.

The room beyond was dimly lit, but when her eyes adjusted, she had to stuff her hand in her mouth to keep from gasping. Joel was sprawled against the windows at the far wall, but if it wasn't for his jacket, she wouldn't have known it was him. His face was a mass of purple and black and red, less human in appearance than a bloater. His right leg ended in an indistinct red pulp, with bits of bone showing through. The largest woman Ellie had ever seen leaned over him, a bloody golf club held casually in one hand. Her muscles rippled under a thin shirt as she cracked it viciously against his side, drawing a cry laced as much with exhaustion as pain. Joel slumped, close to passing out, but she put her boot on the ruin of his knee and pressed until she drew another feeble cry.

Ellie had come too far - she couldn't afford to fail now. She wrenched her eyes away from the two of them to scan the room. They were all there - the other seven. And the prone man in denim back in the corner must be Tommy. No telling whether he was alive or dead. As she'd expected, they'd placed a guard on the door at the base of the stairs, though he kept turning to watch Joel with a sick smile on his face. Most of the others were huddled together near him. Three more women, one man, and then two bigger men flanking the golf aficionado. They apparently hadn't noticed the boiler room door. A couple of pallets even gave her some concealment. Ellie had done more with less, but they had guns . . . a lot of guns.

She fumbled in her backpack until her finger scraped on a sharp edge. It took only a moment to light the nail bomb's fuse. Joel let out another obligatory scream as the butt of the golf club glanced off his eyebrow. One of the onlookers - a woman, dark-skinned and sweating despite the cold - stepped forward. "C'mon, Abs, he's had enough! Fucking finish it!"

The bomb whistled through the air and caught her in the flank. She had just enough time to yelp and turn around in confusion before it exploded, ripping a bloody path through her and everyone in a six foot radius. When the smoke cleared, only the three closest to Joel were still standing and, at last, Joel wasn't the one screaming. "Shit, _shit,_ he's got backup! Cover me, Manny." The man who'd spoken was trembling, but he drew a pistol and dropped into a crouch, moving into cover behind a pillar with quick, military efficiency. A staccato burst of bullets ripped through the pallet, spraying Ellie with splinters. A shotgun blast ripped a cantaloupe-sized hole in the wall just to her right. Concealment wasn't the same as cover. Staying here was suicide.

Fast as she could, Ellie vaulted over the pallet and dashed behind the heavier shelter of an overturned bureau. Her boots slipped in the puddles she'd made of the first five and she went down hard and crawled the rest of the way, barely noticing when a bullet grazed her shoulder.

"It's just some little _puta_ ," the other man barked, far too close for Ellie's comfort, "Bitch doesn't know who she's . . ."

Whatever he was going to say died in a gurgle as Ellie whirled out of her hiding place, swung behind him, and drove her knife into his jugular. The shotgun dropped from his nerveless fingers. His weight sagged into her arms, spastic and jerking and _so heavy._ Ellie locked her knees, refusing to fall, refusing to drop him. He was as good as dead - they could kill her right now if they could bring themselves to shoot through him, but they couldn't. No one ever could. A female voice joined the screams. "No. No no no no no! Fuck, _fuck!_ "

Ellie had to leave the knife - it was stuck in the guy's spine - and more bullets whizzed past her as she dropped his body and ducked back into cover. "Abby, go out and flank her _. Abby_!"

"Yeah . . . yeah, I've got it."

Ellie sprayed a couple of rounds in her direction - enough to slow her down, keep her pinned on one side of the room. The man had a revolver, and one of his answering shots grazed Ellie's arm before she could snatch it back. He was a good shot. She was better.

Not much ammo left. She snapped off a quick shot that ricocheted off the concrete pillar, dropping him back. He answered with three rounds that thudded against the wood of the dresser, then paused. There was a pattern to his shots . . .

With two bullets left in the gun, she fired into the pillar again, but didn't duck back this time. She held her gun on the pillar for long moments, praying the woman wouldn't just splatter her brains across the wall . . . a sliver of brown hair emerged from behind the column, then a pale face . . . Her gun cracked against her hand and he dropped like a marionette with the strings cut, dead before the sound of the shot reached him. The woman screamed for him. "Oh, god, Owen! Fuck, _fuck,_ I will fucking gut you!"

Ellie was fumbling in her backpack, looking for a shiv, a brick, anything, but she was out of time. The woman hit her with the force of a car crash and slammed her head against the tile, making her ears ring. The other woman had a gun on her hip, but that seemed too impersonal for her. The shaft of the golf club bit deep into Ellie's throat, cutting off even a cough as the woman glared down at her with blood - not her own - dripping from her cheeks. "You little fucking monster!"

Ellie got eight fingers under the club and pushed up with all her strength, using the ground for leverage, buying back a few precious millimeters through which to draw breath. She twisted her hips, getting a knee between their bodies and kicked out hard, freeing herself just enough that she could get an arm out, grab the first thing she touched, and swing it against Abby's face. The weapon turned out to be a fallen glass paperweight, knocked from the wall in the chaos, and it shattered against her head with a satisfying crack. Ellie rolled out, dodged a swing of the golf club, and sprang up looking for a more substantial weapon, but the next swing thudded into her kidney, breaking a rib and drawing a choked cry. 

They hit the ground again, struggling and grappling. Ellie's fingers skittered across the woman's skin, scratching and clawing at the most sensitive spots she could find, but she was no match for Abby's bulk. Her cheekbone crunched under Abby's fist, and the next crack of tile against the back of her head nearly made her vomit.

"Do you know what you fucking did, and for what? For that piece of shit?"

Ellie shut her up by spitting blood in her face, catching her mostly in the eye. She brought her leg between both of Abby's and slammed up, hard. The woman screamed and staggered to her feet, swinging the club like she was trying to kill a spider. Ellie could barely breathe. She rolled away once . . . twice . . . took a blow to the stomach and this time she did vomit, but she just rolled again, smearing herself with sick and blood which she belatedly realized was Joel's. She fetched up against the sticky mess of his leg as Abby advanced on her, club raised. Oh, god, his eye was open - the one that wasn't swollen shut - and his lips were forming her name, soundlessly. She was going to die right in front of him, just like he'd always feared . . . Abby stepped over him . . .

A hand - purple and broken, with the fingers sticking out at odd angles - shot out and grabbed Abby's ankle. She paused, seeming more surprised than anything else.

"Don't . . ." his voice was faint and grated, like a broken saw, "It's me you came for."

Abby's breath hissed out of her. There were tears on her cheeks, but her face was set in a grimace that hardly seemed human. "Then, you can die _first._ " She raised the club.

Ellie got her legs under her and sprang up, catching Abby mid-swing. Down they went again, the larger woman letting out a guttural growl of rage. She easily flipped Ellie on her back and brought the club across her throat again, but her size wouldn't save her this time.

Joel's shiv - the one he always kept in his right jacket pocket - bit into Ellie's hand but bit so much deeper into Abby's side, driving through the scarred skin and thick muscle, driving unerringly between two ribs. Ellie yanked it back, leaving her gasping and croaking from the sudden hole in her side, then drove it hard into her throat and twisted. A spray of hot blood splashed out, soaking her face and hair. Abby let out one last cry - high and pained and somehow less cruel than Ellie had hoped, and then sagged down onto her, her weight reminding Ellie suddenly, wrenchingly, of Dina.

She rolled out from under the body as fast as she could and crawled to Joel. That last bit of effort seemed to have been too much. He was out cold. His face was frighteningly pale in the few places where it wasn't bruised, but his chest rose and fell steadily and his pulse, when she found it in his swollen wrist, was strong.

Tremors wracked Ellie's body and the pain was catching up to her as if each blow was landing a second time, but a soft female moan from behind her told her that she wasn't done. It wasn't Abby - the big woman lay still, her eyes open and fixed. Ellie took the gun from her hip, identified it as a .38, and chambered a round. Her legs were shaking, but they held up as she climbed to her feet and turned toward the bloody mess where the nail bomb had gone off. One woman - dark haired and pale-skinned - was still alive and trying to sit up, though blood leaked from a belly wound. Blood and worse. Ellie stepped close enough that she couldn't miss and raised the gun.

"No! No, please don't, I didn't want this, I'm not involved!"

Ellie coughed once and growled to check her voice before replying. "You look pretty fucking involved." Her voice was almost as gravelly as Joel's, but the woman understood her.

"No, you don't understand, I'm just a medic! I came in case someone got hurt and that's all, I _swear_!"

"Well, someone did fucking get hurt, didn't he?"

"I didn't sign up for that, I _help_ people!"

"Right. Medic," Ellie muttered. She looked back at Joel and the smears of blood around him. "You tourniquetted his leg?"

"I . . . yes, _yes,_ I saved his life!"

Ellie cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

The question seemed to catch the woman off guard. She blinked. "He . . . he would've bled out from the shotgun. He'd already be dead."

"Yeah," Ellie breathed, "And that would've been too quick, wouldn't it? You wanted it slow." She cocked the gun. "I don't do _slow_."

"Please, I'm . . ."

The gun had a bigger kick and louder crack than Ellie was used to, but it shot straight. The woman dropped to the ground with pulp where her skull used to be, and a quick visual check of the room revealed that yeah, she was the last one. It was done.

Tremors tore through Ellie as she let the gun fall from her fingers. "Some fucking medic," she whispered hoarsely, "She was already dead. She should've known . . ."

She turned and staggered back to Joel.

"No . . . oh, God, Joel . . ."

His skin was cold and clammy. Shock. Well, it was little wonder. Her rudimentary first aid training kicked in and she rolled him onto his back and pulled her blood-spattered coat over him. His legs - one mangled almost beyond recognition - she lifted onto a half-squashed cardboard box. The pain roused him, and he groaned. "Sorry! I'm sorry, I just have to . . ."

He looked up at her, through the broken blood vessels in his eye, and something in his face eased, despite how disfigured it was. "Ellie . . ."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here."

He glanced weakly across the room. "They all . . . ?"

"Every one of 'em. I checked."

He coughed and choked back a scream at the pressure it put on his chest. "And Tommy?"

_Shit,_ she'd forgotten. She ran over to the other man's still form and rolled him onto his back. Blood flowed like a waterfall over his temple and his face was slack, but he was breathing steadily and she couldn't find any other injuries.

"He's okay," she told Joel, kneeling beside him again, "I think they just knocked him out."

"Good," Joel grunted, "Tha's good." He looked up at her, his gaze hazy but somehow intent. "It's okay, baby girl."

"I'm fine," she snapped, but he lifted a hand to brush over her cheek, where tears she hadn't noticed were tracking through Abby's blood.

"They can't hurt you anymore. You're alright."

Ellie laughed, though it made her ribs scream. "Yeah, 'cause I'm really the one we should be worried about."

"I do worry, though." His voice was weaker, but one corner of his broken lip curled up in a smile. "You're okay . . ."

His eyes fluttered shut, his hand went slack, and Ellie just about had a heart attack before she again found his pulse in his wrist, still strong. He was strong. "Okay," Ellie whispered, "Okay, what now? I can fix this . . ."

His leg was . . . bad. Shotgun blast, the woman had said. And, there was no knowing what kind of damage that damn club had done. Obviously, he couldn't ride back to town, and she couldn't leave to get help unless she wanted to come back to find him stiff and cold. She could strap him over Shimmer's back and walk . . . but shock and hypothermia made for a bad combination. The trip back to Jackson would kill him.

She stumbled over to her unconscious last hope. "Tommy. Tommy! You've gotta wake up." She shook his shoulders and slapped him lightly across the face. The man came to slowly, groaning and grimacing.

"Ellie? Shit, you're bleeding bad!"

"It's not mine," she gasped, "Well, mostly."

"What the hell happened?"

"Hunters, or . . . something, I guess. They're dead, but Joel's hurt. Tommy, it's bad."

He got to his feet, swaying, and swore loudly when he saw the room. It took him a moment to pick out which body was Joel, and when he did, he gasped. "Oh, God, Joel . . . god, what the hell?" He dropped to his knees beside his brother and, like Ellie, felt for the pulse in his wrist and sagged with relief when he found it. "God, they fucked him up . . ."

"Yeah," Ellie hissed urgently, "Tommy, we can't move him. You've gotta go get help. The horses are still outside."

"Yeah," he whispered, "Yeah, I've gotta . . ." He staggered to his feet again but he was swaying. Took a lurching, step, realized it was in the wrong direction, then turned towards the stairs.

"Tommy!" Ellie snapped and waited until he looked at her. "Can you make it?"

His face was clearing a little. "Yeah, I can make it."

"Good, 'cause he's fucking dead if you don't. I can't leave him."

He gave her a firm nod. "Don't worry. I'm gonna go get Maria, we're gonna get some medics up here, and he's gonna be fine."

She nodded back. "Go then."

She didn't watch as he stumbled up the stairs. Her mind was already on the next problem. She ran both hands over her face, feeling the blood start to stick and flake. "Okay. It's fucking freezing down here. I've gotta get him upstairs. The fireplace." She grabbed the shoulders of his jacket. "Sorry, Joel. This is really gonna suck."

She heaved, dragging him a few inches across the floor. Caught her breath and bit back a cry at the pain in her chest. Heaved again. Then again, and again until they reached the bottom of the stairs. "God, Joel. Too many fucking barbeque nights. How much brisket could one man possibly need?" Then it was up the steps, and she didn't have any breath left over to joke. She heaved him up sixteen painful steps, one at a time, her back screaming, adjusting her grip each time her fingers went numb. Joel didn't fully regain consciousness, but he gasped, groaned, and even screamed at each thump. What was left of his leg bent and flopped akimbo until Ellie felt sure she would vomit again.

Somehow - Ellie remained fuzzy on the details - they reached the top of the stairs and the lodge's great room. The fire still crackled merrily in the hearth. "Okay," Ellie said, panting, "All the comforts of home."

The last of the adrenaline was draining from her, and she was so fucking cold, but Ellie forced herself to keep working. She hauled Joel almost uncomfortably close to the fire and shoved one of the strangers' pillows under his head. She tossed a couple blankets onto the hearth to warm up, then took stock of him again. The improved light just revealed more bruises, and Joel's face was shining with sweat, despite how cold he was. "His clothes are soaking wet," she muttered to herself, "Right. Sweat plus cold equals hypothermia, equals death. Shit, this is gonna get a little personal, isn't it?"

She rolled him onto his side and stripped off his coat. Next came two layers of flannel shirts, both crusted with blood and sweat in varying stages of drying. Her stomach clenched and flipped when she saw his chest - nearly as bruised as his face, but she locked her jaw and held back the empty retch. There was a shocking . . . variety to the wounds. Blue-black bruises with even round edges from the back of the club. Sharp red lines, nearly breaking the skin, from the shaft. Deep, ugly lacerations, each about four inches long, where she'd hit him with the blade. Boot prints. The ridged indentations from knuckles. He wasn't bleeding much, at least. Ellie chose to take that as a good sign, rather than a sign that he didn't have the blood left for it. His back was almost unmarked. She'd wanted to look him in the eye while she did this.

There was no way she was getting his jeans off in one piece - not with the scraps of denim threading through the meat of his leg as if they'd grown there. She upended one of the packs and fumbled around until she found a switch blade. Grunting with the effort, she cut down the sides of each pant leg and pulled them off in pieces. She cut a wide circle above the tourniquet and left the denim beneath - she didn't dare disturb that.

She _really_ didn't want to remove his boxers, but the strong smell of urine told her she had no choice. "Nothing I haven't seen before, right?" she said as she cut down the sides, "Y'know, the last time you were trying to bleed out in front of me." His stomach was heavily bruised, but the marks stopped a few inches above his pelvis. Ellie had a moment of relief that at least they hadn't . . . but then stuffed that information into the back of her head in a box labeled "Never Think of Again."

She dried him as best she could with a blanket, listening to his insensate groans. There was nothing to do about the leg but to wrap another blanket around it, praying that the wool was enough to staunch the lingering bleeding without giving him too bad of an infection. When he was as clean as she could get him, she rolled him onto the thickest bedroll she could find, propped his feet up on a pack, and pulled more blankets over him. That was it. That was the best she could do.

She sank down beside him and pulled her knees to her chest as the reckoning came. Waves of exhaustion and pain radiated through her. Her ribcage throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and every breath felt like it was tearing her apart. And if she felt this bad . . .

Well, Joel was asleep, or something like it. She'd done all she could, and Tommy would be back soon with more help. No one would see, now, if she just had herself a good cry.


	2. Breath and Blood

"Ell . . . Ellie . . ."

She woke to the musky smell of Joel, overlaid with a sharp, iron tang. She blinked a few times, feeling a shiner blooming over one eye and not remembering how she got it. Somehow, after passing out, she'd rolled closer to him, ending up almost pressed against his side. They were alone, still, but Joel's eye was open and urgent.

"I didn't mean to sleep," she croaked.

He sagged a little. "Don' scare me lie' tha'." 

"Yeah, look who's talking."

Hours must have passed. The swelling was worse. His lips stuck out at angles that he could barely talk through. Ellie pushed herself up. "Your face. I gotta get some ice. Snow."

"No." He coughed and then failed to stifle a groan. "No, what you need to do is clean yourself up. Get out of those wet clothes. Treat that arm. They got you pre'y good."

"It's a scratch. I can't even feel it."

"You're abou' to. Clean it out right. Water and alcohol."

"But, Joel . . ."

"Water and alcohol, Ellie. You ain't immune to all infections."

She huffed. "Fine."

She emptied a few packs before she found a jar of sharp-smelling moonshine. "Guess they were gonna have a fucking party when they were done." Water bottles were easier to find, and she grabbed a pack at random, hoping for extra clothes. She stepped around the corner - her and Joel's relationship could only take so much nudity in one day - before stripping off her coat and shirt. The alcohol burned like fire when she applied a soaked rag of it to the graze on her shoulder. She held back a whimper. "You're next," she told Joel in a tone of warning, "If I've gotta torture myself with this shit, I'm doing your wounds next."

"You don' have to do that, Ell," his voice was almost lost in the whistle of the wind over the roof, "It ain' gonna make a difference."

She poked her head around the corner. "Oh, no, you don't get to chicken out. Not if you want me to clean mine."

"Ellie . . ."

She waved her grazed forearm at him and answered in singsong. "I'm not cleaning it. You can't make me."

"Jesus Christ, Ellie, would you . . . ?"

"Hey, I'm gonna lick it!" She drew her tongue over the torn skin, tasting blood and vomit. Spat and gagged. "Gross!"

"Fine, Ellie, do what you want after, just clean your goddamn wound!"

Smiling at her victory, she splashed a little more hooch over the rag and cleaned out the second graze carefully. The man's bullet had torn through some of the ferns on her tat, but left the moth fortunately intact. Once it was healed, maybe she could get Cat to fix it . . . though that might be too fucking awkward. Once the arm was clean and wrapped, she used a bit of water to sponge the worst of the blood off of the rest of her. Her hair was probably a lost cause, at least until she could get to a real bath, but she felt a little better at getting the worst of it off her face, at least. Nothing left to do now but hope Abby didn't have HIV.

She pulled open the pack and fumbled until she found a shirt and canvas trousers - both far too big for her. And . . . a bra. She pulled on the spare clothes, trying not to think about their late owner. She rolled up the pant legs twice, tightened the belt to the last hole, and went back to the hearth.

Joel said nothing as she pushed the blankets down to his waist, but his eyes were on her. "Sorry about the . . . naked part," she muttered, "Your clothes were pretty trashed."

Joel swallowed a grunt as she disinfected a deep cut on his side. "You did the righ' thing." His nose suddenly wrinkled. "Did I . . . ?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess a club to the bladder twenty times will do that to a guy."

"You weren't suppose' to see any o' this."

"Well, it's a fucking good thing I did, isn't it?"

She cleaned the next wound, then the next. They weren't bleeding, but his skin was so pale . . .

He groaned. "Maybe."

She pulled out a clean rag. "I've gotta do your face now. It's really gonna suck. I'm sorry."

He clenched his jaw and turned his face towards her so that she could clean the mess of cuts over his left temple. A chunk of his ear was just straight-up missing and the cuts to his scalp were so deep she half expected to see bone. "It's amazing you've got any brain cells left."

Joel snorted, though his eyes were squeezed shut. "Hard head. Ask anybody that knows me."

"You don't have to tell me."

She finished cleaning the cuts and leaned back. "I don't think I can do anything about the leg. If I start messing with that, it could start bleeding again. And that would be bad."

"Don' worry about that." Joel's words were still slurred from the swelling to his face, but his voice was a little stronger. "Ellie . . . I need you to start gettin' your mind right."

Her heart thudded a little faster, though she pretended not to know why. "What are you talking about?"

His hand fumbled for hers. Squeezed. "I don' think I'm gettin' out of this one, baby girl."

She pulled back and raised her voice to be heard over the wind. "Like hell you're not. You were making jokes a second ago."

"I know. I know, but . . ." he wrapped an arm over his belly, "Something's torn. Inside. I can feel myself gettin' weaker."

"That's 'cause you haven't had anything to drink since . . . well, before. I'm gonna get some fluids into you, and you're gonna be fine."

"An' even if it's not," he continued as if he hadn't heard her, "There's still my leg."

"That's . . . we'll fix it, okay? I sent Tommy for help. He's gonna be back any minute now with the medics."

Joel sighed. "Ellie, do you hear that?" He was silent for long moments as Ellie listened. The wind didn't just whistle. It gusted. It galed. It rattled the windows. "What is that sound?"

She glanced at the darkened window and dropped her head. "Blizzard."

"Big one, too. Started about an hour ago. I think that's what woke me up. Migh' last another hour, migh' last three more days, but Tommy can't get back to us until it's done."

Ellie swallowed hard, trying to blame the hard lump in her throat on the bruises above it.

"I wish to God that you didn't have to be here to see this, but . . ."

"Oh, fuck your wishes!" she snapped, "I kept you alive for weeks in a freezing cold basement. Living off of rabbits and rats. Not knowing if . . . And if I can do that, you can hold on for a couple of fucking days! Or, you could at least try."

He closed his eyes. "Alrigh', Ellie. I'll try."

She took a slow breath, then another, trying to calm down. "I'm going to get some snow for your face. You look like a demented cartoon character."

She turned and left without another word.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

It was a long night. By packing his face with snow, Ellie was able to get the swelling down a little - at least enough to confirm that his left eye was still intact, though very swollen and bloodied. She kept the fire going, thankful that they had enough wood for at least another day. It took a ridiculous amount of cajoling to get Joel to drink some water, but when he did, he kept it down. For good measure, she opened a can, strained out the peaches, and made him drink the sickly-sweet syrup they were packed in. He needed calories, badly. She finally found the medic's pack - and with it, a cornucopia of pill bottles, but before she could force a handful of them down his throat, he was passed out again.

She took the time to pick through the basement, leaving the bodies, but grabbing the weapons and hauling them upstairs to inventory. It was a good haul - pistols, rifles, that shotgun. Military grade, practically. Those people, whoever they were, had resources.

The wind continued to roar. A dim, gray light announced the approach of dawn but revealed nothing but swirling white battering the windows. Ellie checked on the horses and found them snug enough in the garage. She realized with an uncomfortable lurch that someone had untacked Joel's horse, groomed him, and given him water. It must've been the hunters. Joel would've kept him tacked, in case he had to leave quickly, and Tommy wouldn't have had time. 

Once Shimmer was similarly settled, there was nothing to do but sit on the hearth, eat her peaches, and watch Joel's chest rise and fall. His breathing was starting to worry her. He didn't exactly have a death rattle ( _not yet, at least_ , she refused to think), but his breaths were coming short, shallow, and more rapid than she'd like, accompanied now and then by a pained grimace, even in sleep. She knew what that was about, at least; her own chest burned every time she took a deep breath, and she was pretty sure she only had the one busted rib.

When he woke, it was all at once with a start and a groan. "Hey," Ellie said quietly, "You okay?"

His face was screwed shut. "Still alive," he croaked.

"Yeah, I know. The chest pain sucks. Maybe I can help with that." She pulled out a canvas pouch and flipped it, spilling orange pill vials everywhere. "Those people . . . they had a medic. And she had some good shit. Like, hospital-grade. Trouble is, I don't know what's what. Some of these have gotta be painkillers. Some . . . antibiotics? I think you need those, too, I just don't know which ones are okay."

"I know most of 'em," Joel's voice came out as a whisper, and he had to stop every few words to catch his breath. "Used to smuggle this kind of thing."

"Yeah? Well, thank god for your life of crime, then." She squatted by his head and held one of the vials up in his line of sight, the battered label visible. "What's this one?"

Joel stared at it for a moment, blinked, and sighed. "Ellie, you're gonna have to read that off for me. My eyes . . . you understand."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, okay." Ellie swallowed and squinted at the label. "Vick . . . Vickidin?"

"Vicodin. Used to be, everybody knew that one. Yeah, that'll do for pain. Grab three."

She fumbled with the child-proof bottle, but eventually got it open and tipped three pills into her hand. She lifted Joel's head with her other hand, wincing when her fingers brushed the torn places in his scalp. Joel didn't complain - just opened his mouth obediently and let her pop the pills in, followed by a swig from a water bottle. He grimaced as he swallowed, but nodded. "Need antibiotics, too, if they've got 'em."

Ellie nodded and dug out another bottle. "Purse-o-zet?"

"Percocet. That's like what I just took. Keep looking."

"Zofran?"

"Doesn't ring any bells."

"Okay, how about this one? Cephalexin?"

"Now we're talking. Grab me a couple of those."

"How many?"

"Doesn't really matter. Antibiotics are pretty safe."

She tipped four capsules into her hand for good measure. "Okay. Down the hatch."

He swallowed and winced, then nodded tightly. "Help me sit up."

"Hey, bad idea! What about your leg?"

"My leg's gonna do what it's gonna do . . . I can barely breathe flat on my back."

Ellie grumbled, but helped pile backpacks and pillows behind him until he could sit up. He gasped a few times, then nodded weakly. "Ellie . . ." he breathed, "My wallet. It was in my jacket pocket. Can you . . . ?"

She nodded mechanically and dug in his jacket for the leather wallet. He took it from her and gripped it to his chest, his knuckles turning white. Ellie's expression darkened. He didn't open the wallet, but she knew what this was about. He didn't keep anything useful in there anymore - no point in carrying a fake FEDRA ID or a couple of ration cards when living in Jackson. The only important thing he kept in that wallet now was a picture of Sarah. Not the soccer tournament picture Ellie had given him - that was framed in his house - but an old school picture he'd gotten from Tommy that he thought Ellie didn't know about.

"Oh, come on!" Ellie snapped her mouth shut. She hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Joel opened his eyes wearily. "What?"

She clenched her jaw, feeling like the worst piece of shit in the world, but not quite ready to give up her anger. "I told you you're not gonna fucking die."

"I'm not sure that's up to either one of us."

"Like hell it isn't! I'm doing everything I can here, but if you're just gonna give up because you wanna go be with your daughter . . ."

"It ain't like that."

"Joel . . ."

A coughing fit wracked him, eventually trailing off into a groan. "Ellie, I am not in any condition to be having this fight right now."

Her shoulders slumped. She felt about two feet tall. "Sorry. Just . . . don't, okay?"

His face softened a little even as his eyes drifted shut. "I'm not gonna leave you, girl. Not if I can help it."

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The morning passed into afternoon, with nothing to mark the time but Joel's grunts and the roar of the wind. As evening approached, Ellie took another toke and blew the sweet-smelling smoke out in a lazy stream towards the ceiling. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the hazy, drifting feeling. She was barely halfway through the joint, but she didn't have much of a tolerance.

A cough from the pallet by the hearth announced that Joel was awake. "Where the hell did you get that?"

She sat up, smiling. "I have my ways."

"C'mon, Ellie, you shouldn't be doing that shit."

"Hey, you're the one who admitted to being a drug-running mastermind."

"I'm serious."

"And, why not? You gonna turn me in to FEDRA?"

"You know goddamn well why not. We live dangerous lives and I can't have you risking gettin' jumped by a horde while you're high as a kite."

"Relax. It's one blunt. I'm not exactly turning into a pothead. And, who's gonna jump us in this?" She waved at the windows, where the blizzard raged on.

Joel gave a noncommittal grunt as if to say that she was seriously underestimating the brain-destroying power of a little weed.

"I've got one more," she said with a grin, "That is, unless you're scared of being corrupted, or something."

He rolled his eyes. "Very funny."

She sobered and pulled the last joint from her pocket. "C'mon, Joel. It'll help with the pain."

He grunted, glanced at her, but finally sighed and held out a hand. She lit his joint from hers and held it out so that he could take it with the two fingers that weren't bound in a splint. He took a drag and coughed. "Maybe just little puffs to start," she said, "Until you're used to it."

"I know how to smoke a damn joint, girl."

She laughed and leaned back, staring up at the high ceiling. "Oh, does Joel Miller have a past? And I thought you were such a wholesome, mild-mannered drug-running mastermind."

"Ha ha."

They smoked in silence for a few minutes, just listening to the wind and the crackle of the fire.

"How bad did you get banged up?"

Ellie rolled her shoulder. "Couple of grazes. Bumps and bruises. Nothing to write home about."

"I saw her get you with that club."

"Yeah. Just a couple times. Broke a rib, I think. I'm fine." She tucked both thumbs into the rolled sleeves of her shirt and changed the subject. "I found these out on patrol. With Dina. The blizzard hit and we had to hole up for a while."

Joel grunted. "You two work some things out?"

She shrugged. "Sort of? Maybe? I don't know, I think I just ended up more confused. We were . . ." She caught herself and turned red.

"Now, Ellie, there are some things I just don't need to know."

She smiled and ducked her head. "Sorry. Point is, I still don't know what she wants out of all this. If she's just messing around or trying to make Jesse jealous or what."

"Is it so hard to believe that she might have feelings for you?" His voice was loosening. Mellowing. He no longer spoke like words were a precious resource to be rationed.

"Maybe? I dunno. How do you tell with that kind of thing?"

Joel snorted softly - a sound that might have been a laugh if his chest were less battered. "Y'know, I am about the last person on the planet who oughta be giving relationship advice."

"Why? You and Tess made it work."

"And that ain't something I want you emulating. It was . . . complicated. She was a complicated person. But, it was always business first between us."

"There must've been others, though." She took another puff, tried to blow smoke rings, and ended up with just nondescript blobs. Still, the high made her bold. "Sarah's mom? You never talk about her."

"There's nothin' to tell. We were both younger than you are now, and a hell of a lot dumber. She wasn't ready to be a parent, and somebody had to be."

"Still, you must've felt something?"

"It was a little like you and Cat. We were both still figuring ourselves out."

"Ugh. You don't have to remind me about that disaster." She puffed a little more. "That's the thing, though. I've never had anything like what Dina had with Jesse. What if she's just always comparing me to him? What if I'm never as good?"

"Settle down. If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out. You'll find something better when the time is right."

"Gah! You're not being very comforting, you know?"

She glanced over at Joel and found him smiling just a little. "It ain't like other kinds of love, Ellie."

She paused at the solemnity in his voice. "What do you mean?"

"Love for family ain't like finding a partner. You don't . . . compare. It's not either or." He took a slow drag, his face lost in memory. "I know she bothers you. Sarah. But, you don't have to worry. She's always gonna be a part of me, but I'm not gonna care about you any less."

She took another slow toke to cover her sudden disquiet. Swallowed and tried to blame the lump in her throat on bruises. Forced a grin. "Y'know, you're completely useless for advice about girls."

He snorted softly. "Yeah, that's what I've been telling you."

"I gotta say, though, you get pretty fucking sappy when you're high."

"Aw, shut up!"

"What? I kind of like it! We should keep you stoned all the time. I've got a shit ton more where that came from."

"Yeah, that's right. Make fun of the mortally wounded man, why don't ya."

"Pfff. You're gonna be fine." She took a long drag. Her face froze, and she forced it to relax. Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "You will, right? Be fine?"

His breath huffed softly. "I don' see how you'll let me be anything else."

She closed her eyes and tried to believe.

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By the time night fell, the blizzard was still roaring, and it was clear that Joel was not fine. No matter how high Ellie built the fire, shivers and tremors wracked his body at regular intervals. In between, he sweated and thrashed, kicking down the blankets while his breath came in short, pained gasps. His lips and the tips of his fingers took on a concerning gray cast. He couldn't keep down broth. The smallest sips of water had him rolling with nausea. He was in and out of consciousness, but lucid enough when awake. That almost made it worse. He knew what was happening to him.

It was during one of these lucid periods that Ellie finally acknowledged it too. She stood up and stared out the black windows. "This isn't working."

Joel's breath wheezed a little. His eyes were closed, his voice faint. "Get me . . . a lil' more of that soup . . . I'll try to hold it down."

"You need more than soup, Joel. You need a fucking IV."

"We're doin' . . . everything we can."

She shook her head. "Not everything." Her boots sat by the fire. Mechanically, she pulled on a fresh layer of socks, then stuffed her feet into them.

"Ellie . . ."

She tuned him out, focusing now on logistics. It was . . . probably a two hour ride to town in good weather. With luck, maybe she could get there in three. "I've gotta get you help."

"Now, Ellie . . . you cannot go out in that storm. You won't make it." The fear in his voice hardly registered. She'd been nothing but afraid for way too long.

"I know the way. So does Shimmer."

"We talked about this . . ."

"I can do it! We'll make it, and we'll bring you back help." She shrugged into a thick parka and grabbed a hat and scarf.

"It's suicide."

She grabbed her hunting rifle next and loaded a few rounds. "Yeah? Well, I'm all out of other ideas, so . . ."

Whatever she was going to say next died in the sudden _BANG_ of a single gunshot as a bullet tore a smoking hole into an interior wall a few feet in front of her, at about the level of her thigh. She swallowed a yell and spun around, the rifle coming up to her shoulder as she scanned for the enemy, but there was only Joel.

Joel, lying on his side, half off the bedroll, revolver in hand, a few wisps of smoke still rising from the barrel.

For long moments, all she could do was stare at him in utter shock, not even noticing that the barrel of her own gun had slid into line with his chest.

His face was gray but locked in the same grim mask that he wore when surrounded by enemies. "Ellie." His voice was faint but hard. "If you go out into that storm, you will die. You're not gonna do that. I'll kneecap you myself before I let that happen."

Her breath felt locked in her throat. She held the rifle out to her side and slowly lowered it to the ground. "Okay," she whispered in her most even Talking to Psychopaths voice, "Okay, Joel. I'm not going anywhere. Just put the gun down."

His hand wavered. His teeth clenched. For the first time since she'd found him in this godforsaken place, she saw tears on his cheeks. "Promise me," he ground out.

"I promise." She stepped close, hands held out to her sides, as nonthreatening as she could make them. "Just . . . stop. You're gonna use up all your strength."

His hand trembled. Then dropped. Slowly and carefully, she knelt beside him and tugged the revolver away. Checked the cylinder. Empty. He'd only loaded one round.

He wouldn't meet her gaze. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling beams, his breath coming in a ragged hiss. "Don' make me go out like that, Ellie," he whispered, "All alone here . . . not knowing if you're alive or dead . . . I can take jus' about anything else."

She bit her lip so hard it bled. "I'm not going anywhere," she said steadily, "I'm right here. C'mon, let's get you back to bed." 

She helped roll him onto his side, the most battered side down. It seemed, for a moment, like he could breathe a little easier.

Swallowing her pain, she tucked herself in behind him, one arm clasped tight around his torso. "You fucking asshole," she breathed.

He squeezed her hand gently and without remorse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're left going "wait, they talked about Dina and Tess and Sarah and Sarah's mom, but they still haven't talked about the eight dead bodies in the basement?" then all I can tell you is that you're asking the right questions. Chapter three should be up in a few days.

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit is welcome, but no Abby-bashing in the comments, please. That's not the point of this story.


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